


Slipping into Fissures

by AutumnInstead



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Entertainment for third party, Humiliation, M/M, Mind Control, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 16:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnInstead/pseuds/AutumnInstead
Summary: Nygma wants Butch to bring him Oswald, but neither of them would have guessed what he has planned.





	Slipping into Fissures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [This](https://archiveofourown.org/users/This/gifts).



Zsasz once made a crack in the back of Butch's mind, sealed it off and marveled over his work. He'd handed Butch over to Penguin like a gift. There are levels to the way that Butch feels about Oswald. First, he'd been Fish's fragile, simpering umbrella boy. It was fun to let him join in with violence, sometimes, because he would never survive on his own. Then, suddenly, he'd ousted Fish, and Butch was subservient to him, and it had made sense. Zsasz had made it make sense. Butch is sure that his affection was genuine, somewhere. He'd fought for his favor against Nygma, after all.

Now, he has no problem pressing a gun to the back of Oswald's head, as Oswald stumbles in front. Butch can hear him breathing, his husky voice clear in his short, sharp breaths. Oswald often feels more pain when he's stressed, and exhaustion creeps up on him more easily. Butch can still feel for him, a little, and it pangs, dully.

Butch nudges Oswald with the nose of his gun, and they step into a large room. It's overfurnished, with ornate paintings and decorative gold, and everything is stolen from places all over Gotham. Butch has learned that he has no real taste for power, and he wonders, wryly, if that's linked to the fact that he has no taste for the ostentatious, either.

Edward Nygma stands in the center of the room, all in green, the fabric of his suit glimmering. He smiles, showing all of his teeth, and his eyes glitter behind his glasses. Oswald bristles, a slip of angled black against gold and green and the polished floor. Nygma clasps his hands together and laughs.

"Oh, you've arrived!" he says. "I have to admit, I'm a little surprised, Butch. Some of the words in the directions Barbara gave you had more than one syllable."

Butch glowers. There would be no brainwashing strong enough to make him submit to Nygma the same way he did to Penguin. He would rip his throat out the first chance he got, he's sure of it.

"What do you want, Ed?" says Oswald. His voice is bladed, but there's a strain underneath that. He looks around like a small animal on alert. "...I guess I didn't teach you much in the way of taste when you lived with me."

Oswald laughs, quick and derisive. Butch can imagine the smile he's giving Nygma, closed-mouthed and smart, and maybe there's a brightness in his eyes, a subdued reflection of who he is when he's on top of his game. Nygma's smile evaporates, his mouth shrinking into a terse line.

"Taste? Crumbling Gothic piles that smell like cigarettes and every dead malcontent in your paternal family tree is taste, Oswald?" he says. Nygma enunciates his words like he's performing on a stage, but there's cruel tone that runs through them.

A flinch goes through Oswald. As far as Butch is concerned, it's just as well that it wasn't his mother whose remains Nygma played with. Maybe Nygma would have been too dead to have gotten around to shooting Oswald.

Nygma approaches Oswald, his suit glistening like oil. Oswald sets his jaw, the lines of his body tensing. Nygma towers over him, but Oswald has pit himself against more frightening people. Butch could feel pride over this, but there are only so many emotional complications he can take.

"I think you know what I'd rather be called," growls Nygma. "You, more than anyone, should be calling me by the name I've chosen."

"Why, Ed?" scoffs Oswald, and he takes a wobbling step towards Nygma. "Do you think you're special? Plenty of people have tried to kill me. You aren't important."

"Gotham's newspapers and television channels would say otherwise," replies Nygma. He snakes out a hand and curls it in Oswald's fancy shirt. He pulls him forward, so that Oswald is forced to tilt his head upwards at a sharp angle.

"They've said that about so many people," says Oswald. He shrugs, even as Nygma is holding him up. "You'll slip through and be yesterday's news."

Nygma bares his teeth, a quick flash. Then, "You'll still think of me, won't you?"

Oswald bows his head for a moment. "Somebody has to," he says. "Ed."

Nygma releases him. "You won't call me that after I'm done with you."

"You've done everything you can," says Oswald. "I'm still here."

"Not everything," says Nygma. He looks at Butch, who can practically see the broken cogs in his head clanging together. Butch stares back, stoned-faced.

Edward slips his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and produces a tiny bottle. It looks like something Fish would have owned. Her favorite was lilacs, but the liquid in this bottle is a vivid, potent green.

Nygma's shoes snap against the varnished floor as he stalks over to Butch. Oswald, small in the distance, watches him, his eyes blazing and his bones cut-glass.

"I have this," says Edward. He holds the bottle aloft, turning so that Oswald can see. "You know what this is."

For somebody with a limp, Oswald can move surprisingly quickly. He grabs Nygma's sleeve, his grip tightening until his knuckles turn white.

"What did you do to her?" he demands, fractious and shaking.

Nygma wraps the fingers of his other hand around Oswald's wrist, and gives a nasty cackle. "Oh, I didn't do anything," he says. "She has miscreant street friends who are always open to earning a dollar or two."

Oswald closes his eyes and sighs. Edward continues, "Neither of them know what I'm going to do with it."

"What are you going to make me do, Ed?" says Oswald. "Blow my own brains out?"

Nygma tilts his head, his bones sharp and alien. "It's a tempting thought. But, no, that's not the plan." Edward turns to Butch. "Our meat puppet, here, is the one who is going to be doing something."

Butch straightens, gripping his gun. It offers him a familiar solidity and he thinks that he could shoot Nygma right here, right now, letting him bleeding out on the pristine floor. There would just be something about that - leaving Nygma for dead among his spoils, his ego burst with a single bullet. Butch could take Oswald and let him destroy Barbara, because at least Butch knows that Oswald is good at what he does.

But Nygma has pulled the stop from the bottle, just under Butch's nose, and the fumes are rising out of the neck. Butch catches soft florals over something deep and thick and sharp, and it seeps into the back of his mind. It invades the crevices that Zsasz made. Butch moves to pull the trigger, but the fingers of his good hand go lax, and the will to shoot Nygma leaves him. The poison threads through his muscles and he doesn't want to let it. But he does.

Inside, he screams. It's being back inside that basement, where he was broken and rebuilt. He is caged, again, like an animal. Nygma laughs, his maw gaping, and his eyes shining.

"Butch?" asks Oswald, and there is desperate panic rising in his voice. Butch can see him in his periphery vision, and he's ready to bolt.

"You're an empty puppet, Butch," says Nygma. "And, now you're under my control, too!"

He giggles at his own joke, and there is a sharp inhalation from Oswald as he begins to escape as best he can.

"Grab him," says Nygma.

Butch's arm snakes out, and it belongs to somebody else. The fingers of his good hand wrap around Oswald's forearm, holding him tight in a vice. He sees Oswald look up at him, his eyes huge, his fine bones tensing dangerously in Butch's grip. One twitch of his fingers, and they could break.

"Butch," gasps Oswald, and he struggles, his arm pulling and flexing. His breathing quickens, and it's like trapping an animal, muscles shivering under Butch's palm. "Butch! Let me go!"

Nygma sniggers, and he watches Oswald struggle. He stares with bright satisfaction, and Butch tries to hang onto the part of himself that wants to rip Nygma limb from limb. If he can do that, maybe he could break the perfume's hold.

"Ed!" shouts Oswald. Just underneath his surface, there was always a hungry, desperate survival instinct. "Ed! He needs to let go. Ed! I'll kill you! I'll skin you alive. Both of you!"

Butch claws at the inside of his own head.

"You're going to find that difficult for at least a while," smarms Nygma. He raises a hand and snaps long fingers together. "Puppet, get the little bird on the floor."

Oswald protests, his breathing heavy and strained and rapid. He tries to yank his arm away, pulling at Butch's fingers with his other hand. Butch can feel his urgent attempts at prying his hand off, his slender fingers scrabbling at his knuckles. All Butch can do, though, is drop to his knees, robotically, pulling Oswald with him. At least the perfume dulls the fear of what Nygma wants him to do. Brainwashing does always keep you buried, just a little bit.

It's Oswald who is left nakedly frightened. He falls on his leg, and winces, and his eyes are already luminous with tears. The sight of him is almost lacerating to the fog in Butch's mind, but not quite. It always just about falls short. Butch tries to hang onto the hate that he has for Nygma, but it's slippery. He placidly tugs Oswald onto his back.

Nygma stands over them, as if he just happens to be a mild observer.

"Ed, you really don't want to do this," says Oswald. It's both a plea and a threat.

"Oswald," murmurs Nygma, and he gives a quiet smile. "This is all for you."

Oswald glares, and the angle of his jaw could cut through bone.

"Butch," says Nygma. "I know you've got this in you: strip our friend of all his fancy clothes."

Oswald's mouth drops, and he splutters, wet-eyed. The horror buried inside Butch sinks down and sits heavy in his gut, and all he can do is reach for the lapel of Oswald's jacket. It's expensive wool, lined with silk.

"No, no. Please, no," whines Oswald. He struggles and strains against Butch's unmoving bulk, his slender hands scrabbling at his wrists. "Butch, I'll pay you! Ed, I'll kill you!

Butch feels Oswald's struggles against him fall uselessly, like a rodent trying to dig through glass.

"Oswald," says Nygma, softly. "He barely has a will of his own at the best of times."

As Butch plucks open the buttons of Oswald's jacket, Oswald's hand pulls at his wrist, his thumb pressing against the underside. Butch can feel the quickness of his angry, frightened pulse. But, he continues, until he can see the brocade vest beneath, purple on black. Oswald tries to push himself up, but Butch forces him back with one flat hand on his chest.

"Don't be afraid to tear his clothes," says Nygma. He spits, "it's an identity, he's so weak without them."

"Not as weak as you." Oswald rises up, even as Butch is hooking his fingers into the top of his vest. "Me being alive just ruins everything, doesn't it?"

"You being alive is an affront to everything," says Nygma. He kneels next to Oswald. "How is it right that you're alive?"

"I'm hard to kill, Ed. You should realise that," says Oswald, his fingernails digging into Butch's skin. Butch ignores it. "When you were snivelling around the GCPD trying to get someone, anyone, to pay attention to you, I was making myself king!"

Nygma sneers, his face twisting. Butch tears open Oswald's vest, and the buttons clatter across the floor, Oswald turning his head to desperately watch them bounce and settle. Nygma smiles, his face inches from Oswald's.

"And now we're closer to your weak, emotional little center," says Nygma. He touches Oswald's face with one gloved hand. Oswald flinches. "And might I remind you, it was you who was so hungry for my attention, in the end.

Oswald closes his eyes, and Nygma grabs his tie and curls it around his palm. He twists and yanks it, so it pulls on Oswald's neck. It forces Oswald to open his eyes, wide, and Nygma swiftly undoes the tie, before pulling it off. Butch looks down at Oswald's white shirt, bunches his hand in the material, and rips it open. The undershirt goes with it, the suspenders snap, prompting a gasp from Oswald.

His torn shirt hanging open, Oswald looks much less protected. He's thin and soft, and fine-boned enough to appear fragile. Oswald tries to pull his ripped clothes around him, but Butch stops him. The way Butch's own body is moving makes him feel like it's made out of several distinct parts, and his mind is one that's inconsequential, rather than being the center. Nygma smirks, Oswald's tie still wrapped around his palm.

"No!" Clearly, Oswald wants spare himself the humiliation, but Butch is running automatically. He tears open Oswald's pants, yanking them down over his hips. Oswald squirms and kicks, but Butch continues, and the pants come off, along with his socks and shoes. Now, left in his underwear, Oswald whimpers and bites down on his lip, and doesn't stop trying to wriggle away from Butch. Butch, who feels like an insect sitting on the wall, just puts his hands on Oswald's thighs to still him, his prosthetic on his left and his real hand on his right.

Oswald does go still, his chest rising and falling as he takes ragged breaths. He laughs, then, and it's quiet and broken.

"You should thank me," snarls Oswald, at Ed. "Where would you be without me?"

"I would be the person that I was supposed to be," snaps Nygma. He pauses and sighs, adjusting his glasses. "Butch, give Oswald the fucking he deserves."

Nygma hardens the edges of his words, and Butch screams, somewhere inside. Oswald starts struggling, again, breathing hard with the effort, but Butch doesn't let him go. Can't let him go.

"No, no, please, please, Butch," pleads Oswald, his voice wavering like he's about to burst into tears. Butch slips his fingers into the waistband of Oswald's underwear and pulls, the smooth cotton material making an audible rip. Left naked, Oswald just screams, loud and hoarse. Nygma doesn't laugh, and just looks on, his face set into a grim frown.

Without his clothes, Oswald is even paler and smaller. Butch can feel his fine bones under his skin, and his modest genitals sit limply against his thigh. Butch wants to back out of his own head and leave his body, completely.

"How does it feel, Oswald?" taunts Nygma. He's still sneering, not smiling. "To not be the Penguin."

"I'm still the Penguin," says Oswald, quietly. "I'll always be the Penguin."

Nygma purses his mouth and looks, suddenly, like an impudent child. He raises one hand and, again, snaps his fingers. In a haze, Butch moves his hands to his zipper and opens it, pulling out his dick as if he had no problem in doing so. Nygma blinks, and looks away, as if this is to much for him. As if it's now that he wants to display some kind of twisted courtesy.

Oswald watches Butch, and swallows. He starts to move, but Butch clamps his false hand on his soft cock and balls, and he goes still, again, his breath frightened and ragged in his throat.

Butch wraps his hand around his dick and starts pumping. The movements are mechanical, a mockery, but he brings himself to an erect state. Oswald watches him, shivering, his eyes dull, as Nygma begins to pace.

He removes his prosthetic hand from Oswald's genitals, and Oswald breathes a sigh of relief. Then, he kicks out at Butch, who catches his ankle, before grabbing his thighs, again. Oswald squirms as Butch pulls him close enough that he has his ankles on either side of Butch's middle, wincing as he's dragged over the varnished floor. Nygma turns, and, obscenely, his expression is inquisitive.

He watches as Butch forces Oswald's legs open, his eyes liquid. Instinctively, Oswald tries to shut his legs, and he snarls as Butch presses down with his prosthetic hand, and digs his fingers in with his other hand. Nygma stares as Oswald is fully exposed, his small, pink entrance vulnerable to the room.

He moves his hands to Oswald's narrow hips, his thumbs in the hollows beneath his hipbones. He positions him against the head of his cock, and Oswald starts.

"Please," he says, his voice catching, thin and exhausted, his face tearstained. "This won't work out well for any of us."

Butch doesn't so much as spit, and the only thing that stops him from sliding Oswald straight onto his cock is the fact that he's made to push through the tight ring of muscle. Oswald whines and lets out a choking sob as the head of Butch's dick is forced into him. He wriggles, but Butch impales him, down to the base. Oswald keens, pained, shutting his eyes tight.

"I can't-" he whimpers, and he can't say anything more.

Oswald is almost unbearably tight, and so hot. Still, a node of distant, nauseating pleasure forms inside Butch, and he finds that his working fingers are gripping Oswald's hip so hard that it's going to leave bruises. He's splitting him in half from the inside. Oswald won't stay quiet, but he can't scream, either, and his voice is cracking as he cries.

Even under all of the haze of the perfume, the absurdity of the situation occurs to Butch. This is the indomitable Penguin, and Butch is forcing him up and down on his dick like a broken doll.

Butch keeps going, and going, and going, while Oswald shatters into miserable pieces. Oswald doesn't grow hard, and he stays unbelievably tight, his muscles clenching, as if he could just force Butch out of him. Nygma just watches.

When Butch comes, he can stop. He slides out of Oswald, out of the sick, slick wetness, and lets him lay on the ground. Oswald doesn't move, and just lies there, staring and blinking, his eyes red from sobbing and his eyelids heavy from exhaustion. Nygma stares down at him in undisguised fascination, where Oswald seems incongruously subdued.

"We're finished, here," he says.

The effects of the perfume begin to wane, and Butch tucks himself back into his pants, zipping himself up. Oswald is still and quiet, and Butch begins to unbutton his jacket. He takes it off and drapes it over Oswald, who doesn't react. But it covers him, at least. They all stay there in silence.


End file.
